


Our Design

by days4daisy



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Cannibalism, M/M, Murder, crossovering treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-09 06:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12271200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “You never cease to amaze me, Galen. Did you always have this love of the culinary arts?”





	Our Design

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



The man is ranting again.

Krennic is always ranting, one tripped wire away from exploding at all times. His temperature is rising by the second. It ruins his scent; too warm, the pepper of his smell soured into something furious and unpleasant.

Krennic did not announce this latest arrival on Eadu. He blustered past guards and bellowed inside Galen's laboratory while every other scientist scuttled for cover. Galen, alone, withstood the ravings of his old friend.

He faces this latest tirade with cold indifference. “Why do you let him do this to you?”

Krennic stops mid-rant, as if amazed someone is still listening to him. “What do you mean?” he demands.

“Tarkin. You are the director of this project-”

“He holds _rank_ on me, Galen,” Krennic protests, voice rising. “The greater our strides, the more he advances.”

“He cannot finish this project without your vision, or our research-”

“He has Lord Vader’s ear, and the Emperor’s!”

“As will you.” Galen assures with hands on Krennic’s shoulders. How withered they’ve become, veiny and cracked against the crisp white of Krennic’s uniform.

The touch makes his old friend stop. The insanity drains from his eyes, and his face returns to its normal pallor. Krennic manages to speak in a quieter tone. “How is your progress?”

“Steady,” Galen answers. “The kyber mines on Jedha have proven important for the conductor.”

Krennic allows a smile, thin and biting. “If only the Jedi could see us now."

Galen hums his agreement. “Are you staying?”

“Until tomorrow. We begin work on the outer paneling at the start of the standard month. The blueprints are set, but I must be on hand for the next phase's roll-out.”

“Which means you’re here tonight,” Galen deduces. “I’ll prepare dinner.”

Krennic scoffs, but a corner of his mouth threatens to rise. “You never cease to amaze me, Galen. Did you always have this love of the culinary arts?”

“It was a hobby of sorts. In need of cultivating before I could share it.”

“You’ve always been a perfectionist, haven’t you?” Krennic's amusement tempers to thoughtfulness. “I was told about Doctor Khwabali. What a shame.” His sympathy almost sounds sincere.

Galen nods. “He was a sad man, but pleasant company. The doctor had a good mind.”

“A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

“That it is,” Galen agrees. And he does not intend to.

***

Galen stews the sausage in a broth of spice and kebroot. The salad is dressed in an airy, peach cream. “What am I tasting?” Krennic wonders, fork dangling above the plate. It sways up and back pensively. “Quite a rich flavor. Where does the color come from?”

“We’ve discussed this, Krennic,” Galen chides. “In the lab, I am at your disposal. Here, allow my art to be my own.”

“Your art, yes.” Krennic blesses the request with a fresh forkful of greens. Dressing slips from the leaves, drops of pink on his plate.

He hums as he chews, and Galen watches him just as thoughtfully. He recalls Doctor Khwabali’s reddened face, bulbous like an overripe fruit. The man thrashed and pawed at the rope around his neck; it took quite a bit longer for him to end than Galen anticipated. He recalls the doctor's weight too, a chore to cut through to reach the sweetness within.

The mind is indeed a terrible thing to waste. It is also the most difficult to extract. Years have passed since Galen’s work sentence began on Eadu. He is no longer watched round-the-clock, but he cannot own heavier carving apparatus. A simple bonesaw is what Galen used, far more crude than he would have preferred. Still, he managed to cut through the skull without damaging the specimen. The dressing frothed more delightfully than expected.

“I don’t know how you get these ingredients here,” Krennic marvels. “Have you buttered your transport boys this much?”

Only one, sadly, and he was too thin to savor. “I make do with what I’m allowed,” Galen says, with a small smile. “These nights mean a great deal to me.”

Krennic starts to respond but stops, a sigh behind a spoonful of stew. He enjoys his food flavorful. Years ago, Galen was too repulsed by Krennic’s ethics to appreciate his palette. But it seems in taste, as in moral quandaries, he and his old friend still have much in common.

Galen steeples fingers against his chin and wonders about Orson Krennic. His blood will no doubt be more vibrant than that of the sad, sickly Doctor Khwabali. A violent cherry, running wine-thick down the edges of his cutting board.

The meat itself will depend on Krennic’s mood. Krennic works into too frequent a frenzy. Galen could subdue him by other means, of course. But a sedative will ruin the cut, and a sudden, violent death will leave a taste of fear on the tongue.

An evening like tonight would be perfect. An intimate affair, locked away from the prying eyes of Imperial surveillance cameras. It is Krennic who prefers this privacy, unwilling to have his charges see the quieter side of their director.

“Are you happy, Krennic?” he asks.

Krennic lifts a brow. He finishes his current mouthful, swallowing pointedly before echoing, “Am I happy? Now, you mean?”

“With everything. The project. Your status. Are you a man fulfilled?”

Krennic hisses behind his teeth. “Must we do this?”

Galen rests a hand over Krennic’s. Krennic stills immediately. “I’m not asking about the morality of the project,” Galen assures him. “I’m asking about you, Krennic.”

The director's answering smile is small and bitter. “Is a man ever truly happy?” He removes his hand from Galen’s and busies himself with the meal again.

Galen sinks back in his seat and dwells on the answer. His sigh is at once resigned and amused. There is a reason, after all, that Orson Krennic is still alive.

***

Galen told Jyn to run. Jyn was still young, Jyn could have a life, a chance to survive. Jyn was too small with many years to grow. Too tender to keep when the sensors pinged arrival of the day Galen always knew would come.

Lyra, though. Lyra did not run.

When the Imperial party arrived on Lah’mu, Galen declared that his wife was dead. “Oh, Galen,” Krennic chirped, “how terrible! Search the house.”

The Death Troopers did not find Lyra inside. They found her out back.

Krennic did not believe it when one returned to murmur metallic intel into his ear. He had to see for himself. Ever the cynic, he went, grand cape foaming behind him like a stormy sea.

When Krennic returned, he was the most subdued Galen had ever seen him. “I’m so sorry, Galen,” Krennic said. For once, he sounded as if he meant it.

There was no meat on Lyra when Krennic found her remains. Galen only left the bones; he allowed his old friend no more of her than this.

***

There is little peace inside Orson Krennic. He is a tempest within the final explosion of a dying star. The closest he comes to tranquility is in moments like these. He hums and reclines, even smiles a time or two. His hands bridge over a satisfied stomach, head tilted to regard Galen with interest.

Galen wonders about him. Why is Krennic still alive? Does he deserve to be? When will the moment be right to exact his full revenge?

“It’s magnificent, Galen,” Krennic is wistful as a proud father. “You’ve seen the holo-vids, but in person it truly is a wonder.”

“A testament to your design,” Galen says. He pours the wine, a glass for Krennic and a glass for himself. A deep plum red, like a fresh bruise swelling at the edges. He pictures it spilling down Krennic’s pristine, white uniform. He thinks of Krennic’s blood too, and if it will be more vibrant. Red as a warning siren, perhaps.

“A testament to _our_ design,” Krennic corrects.

There was a time when the words would have chilled Galen, but little affects him anymore. The sentiment spills off Galen like the prolific rains of Eadu. Strange how, in this storm of years, Krennic has become Galen’s calm. A promise of retribution. An end goal. A quarry.

Galen smiles. “I would like to see it.”

“You will," Krennic assures him. "When the weapon is revealed, you will be by my side. I promise.”

Galen wonders if Krennic’s words are meant as taunt or gift. It’s become difficult to tell where the man’s cruelty ends and his affection begins.

Galen sips his wine and dwells on Orson Krennic. His passion, his taste, his feelings, his blood.

Krennic stiffens at the hands Galen drapes across his shoulders. Amusing for the golden child of the Core of Engineers to startle so easily at Galen Erso. Years ago, it was Krennic who froze Galen like prey with a mere touch. He was beautiful back then, sharp-witted and captivating.

He still is, Galen supposes, in his own terrible way.

Krennic relaxes after a moment and rests his head on Galen’s stomach. His face is warm under Galen’s fingers. It is an older face now, creased with deep lines. But still soft, still enough.

Krennic sighs and drinks his wine, and Galen considers how much torque it will take to snap his neck. Two hands, of course. Krennic, for his many faults, is no stranger to confrontation. He will not be easy to kill, even if Galen catches him unaware. They will fight, and they will both bleed. Galen pictures the white uniform shred under his hands. The cape torn away, and the light fading from Krennic’s eyes. How perfect a vision he will make, how tantalizing a dying sight.

Galen canvasses through his internal recipe log. Decisions must be made, but they cannot be made haphazardly. This one must be perfect. If the final plate is not worth the hunt, it’s all for nought, isn’t it?

Galen spares a glance for the kiss pressed to his fingertips. Krennic is quiet and content, both unusual for him.

Galen says, “It is our design, Orson. Yours and mine."

“Mmm,” Krennic agrees. He closes his eyes, and Galen dreams of his taste. How sweet it will be, how worthy, after so long a wait.

* The End *


End file.
